


Stitches

by naripolpetta (mofumanju)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mofumanju/pseuds/naripolpetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shadows are walking on their floor, touching gently their feet. John can hear Sherlock sighing, and he smiles a bit. He feels a bit dizzy, and it's a natural move when he curls a bit, searching for Sherlock's shoulder. He closes his eyes, breathing his smell.</p><p>Disinfectant and skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sherlockbbc_fic, prompt stitches - guess where the title comes from? And since is not beta-ed, forgiveness for this poor not-native-speaker.

I.

The first time Sherlock needs John's medical assistance is three days after they solve their first case together. It's a quiet day of february, snow landing gently on the streets and making everything white for the joy of children.  
Making everything extremely hateful - and slippery.

It's really a matter of seconds; Sherlock walks towards Baker Street thinking, trying to figure out how to defeat the boredom that's annoying him lately, trying to ignore the piercing voices surrounding him and pinching his brain. He doesn't notice the child running out of his house with a big smile on his little, chubby face, at least not until he bumps on him.

Sherlock loses his balance and slips on the ice, feeling the cold air embracing him; then, something hits his head hard, and he can't see anything for a few moments; he records everything and sends his hate towards that crying thing already on his feet, before moaning in pain.

John calls him from the window, and after a few seconds he is out of the door, reaching him and calling him idiot.

Danger is in every corner. Had it been some stupid robber, at least, he would have been happier.

"Not my fault." he mubbles tired, eyes raised up to heaven.

"Well, neither is mine." Sherlock watches John helping him, feeling his hand on his back; pain runs across his spine, hitting his head. "You should have watched."

"Yes, okay, you're right, now please shut up."

And John obeys, bringing him home.

Inside their flat, John cures him, stitching his left cheekbone before the skin turns black.

"Luckily for you, I'm a good doctor."

Sherlock doesn't speak a word, but smiles despite the pain.

II.

Experiments are part of Sherlock's essence, one good distraction between a case and another. John knows there's nothing bad in trying to melt a piece of iron with sodium chloride into the dishes he'd like to use to eat, until they don't use them, obviously. Still, he doesn't really like when, while he's reading a good book or watching telly, something explodes in their kitchen, making him panick almost outirght.

"Sherlock!" shouts, running towards the kitchen. "What the hell-"

Smoke fills the room and makes him cough, hand shaking in the air. "What the hall have you done?"

He hears Sherlock coughing, somewhere behind the cloud of deep grey - that thing sure has a bad smell, he thinks. John enters in the room, groping for his mate.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock shouts. He take John's hand and pushes him out the kitchen, still coughing the hell out of his lungs.

Both are sure Mrs. Hudson won't be happy.

"The pot exploded." he says, voice flat and calm.

John looks at him, and only then he sees blood dripping from the palm of Sherlock's hand. "Oh God." he says, taking his hand and staring at the cut.

A bloody, deep cut in the middle of Sherlock's hand. Fantastic. "And you're not an idiot, nh?"

"I did the portions wrong. Less chloride next time."

"Next time will be when you die."

John jumps on his feet, first opening all the windows, then running to take the first-aid kit in the bathroom. "No experiment until Christmas, Sherlock!"

"Oh, don't be silly, you can't keep me from doing my stuff."

"Oh that's what you think." John sits in front of Sherlock again, fiddling with gauzes and needles and threads. "You need stitches. Really Sherlock, when will you learn to pay attention?"

"John, calm down. I'm fine."

"If you call this fine."

John tightens his hand on Sherlock wrist, shaking his hand in front of his eyes. Sherlock moans a bit, biting his low lip in pain. "Okay, stop it."

"Well, at last." John push his thumb against the broken skin, then takes the disinfectant, dabbing at the cut. "Does it burn? Well, it's what you deserve for being so stupid."

"Stop calling me stupid, it's annoying."

"Stop being stupid then."

John knows there's no way to make Sherlock shut up, so he whispers and starts to literally sew his hand, ignoring every protest coming from his mate's lips.

  


III.

  


March smells of flowers.

Snow is melting in streets as well as in people's mind, leaving place to the upcoming spring. John sits in his office, visiting a poor girl with hay fever who can't stop snuffling.

John loves to work with children: he can't quantify the satisfaction running in his veins when some little boy or girl stops crying and thanks him with a huge, beautiful smile. Sometimes he wonders, sometimes like today, what kept him from becoming a pediatrician.

Then, the door slams against the wall, giving him an answer he already knew.

"... Oh, fu-" he says, eyes open wide on Sherlock, his mind thinking _This can't be fucking real._

"I need your assistance." he moans, limping. He reminds John the times when he was forced to use a damn cane.

"What the hell did you-"

John feels his heart racing, while Sherlock falls on his knees, swearing. "Lestrade called me this morning, murder in Oxford Street. Clever boy.

he was, he had a knife with him. I tried to stop and-"

He shows John his leg, tense smile on his face.

"There was no one there to-"

"I don't want anyone to touch me but you." he says, without watching him, and John whispers and surrenders. He rips the rest of his already broken trousers; there's a long, deep cut through his calf, still spitting blood. "You could have died."

"I'm still here."

There's something on John's chest that's near to rip; his heart is racing so much he really doesn't know if he can keep standing situations like this, when his mate comes to him covered in blood and risking his life only because he doesn't want to be touched to anyone but him. It can't understand the feeling embracing his heart, his mind, he doesn't know if it's concern, or relief.

He doesn't really know.

"Well okay. You need to stand up, can you-"

"I'm fine, John. Stop worrying and sew my leg."

Sherlock leans on John's shoulder, putting himself on his feet, and walks limping towards the couch.

John stares at him, standing still for a few moments.

Sometimes, Sherlock's back seems so little he's afraid he could break.

  
IV.

  


It's raining above their heads, London sky filled with grey clouds.

John is running, looking everywhere for Sherlock - "There's a dead man on Holford road, come." Lestrade texted them that morning, and Sherlock put on his coat and, without a word, he literally jumped out their flat, shouting to the air to come with him.

But Sherlock has long legs, Sherlock runs fast, especially with someone shaking his gun in front of him, his clothes covered in blood and eyes little and evil. He doesn't give John the time to follow him, because he starts to chase him, and John is sure is thinking a way to make this go well, and that's why Sherlock forgets about him.

"Sherlock!" he calls.

But nothing comes back.

His mind is wandering somewhere he doesn't like. He repeats himself that Sherlock is fine, that he knows what to do, and he'd like to help, really, but it's pouring and he's running from almost ten minutes, his leg begging him to stop with a rush of pain. Just one minute.

He leads on a wall and breathes, drops of rain running on his back. People always choose the best days to commit their stupid crimes, he thinks.

He really hopes everything will end soon; but it's a moment, eyelids closing for a bit, and then a shot rumbles in the air, freezing him - Sherlock's name in his ears, louder and louder.

He forgets about the pain and starts running down the street, calling his name out loud. He can't remember if Sherlock has a gun with him, maybe he has it mabye he's safe maybe he's dead.

He swallows, suddenly feeling the need to see his mate with his own eyes.

At the end of Holford road, there are two bodies laying on the ground. John stops whispering useless prayers and reaches Sherlock, calling his name, filling the emptiness.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he calls him, hands tight on his shoulder. He can feel the blood wetting his hands, and the only thing he can think is that Sherlock is dying and he can do nothing. "Sherlock, for Christ's sake!" he swears, shaking his body.

Luckily, he seems to hear his voice. Sherlock opens his eyes, looking for John's gaze. "I'm fine." he whispers, a small smile on his face.

"No you're not!"

John trembles and sweats in panic, letting Sherlock rest on the ground. He starts to look for his phone, and his hands can't stand steady - fuck his PTSD, he should be calm now, not freaking like a child. He finds his phone, but his hands are so slippery with blood that it slips out of his hands, precious seconds lost because of his foolishness.

A deep breath, and he digits Lestrade's number, hoping he's near them. When the ispector picks up the call, John doesn't even give him the time to answer.

"Paramedics!" he shouts, his voice trembling. "Holford road, get the paramedics here! Now!"

"John, what-"

"Sherlock's been shot."

It's enough. Lestrade disappears behind a white noise, and John tries to calm down, pressing gently his hands on Sherlock's side. "I-it hurts."

"I know, I'm sorry. They're coming, please-"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not leaving. Stay... calm."

"Why you didn't wait, you idiot!"

But he doesn't answer. John hates him, he doesn't understand why there's a little smile painted on his mate friend, he feels stupid and really - why can't he snake in his mind as Sherlock does with everyone's?

"Idiot..." he says again, and he can feel his eyes pinching - oh God, is he really near to cry?

Sirens are approaching and he whispers, head turned towards the sky.

"John..." he calls, and the doctor nods, holding his hand.

"I'm here."

John knows Sherlock will survive. He doesn't care about the other man, curled up into a ball and groaning. For a moment, just for a brief moment, he really wish he died – hadn’t he been a doctor, the moment would have surely last longer.

When the ambulance comes, they both stay in silence, Sherlock trying not to moan, John looking at some vague point through the little windows.

The trip to the hospital seems so long that the doctor feels like suffocating; he can't think of anything but the hole in his friend's side, the cut on the shoulder that he notices just now.

He should have run faster.

Then, the hospital is in front of his nose, and doctors run and shout something he can't understand because he’s not listening - bullets, bruises, operating room, pain pain pain.

He hears his name, out loud in the air.

Sherlock can be so spoiled, so selfish, so many things he can't deal with. He calls him, ordening the paramedics to stay away from him, because he has John, he has is own doctor and doesn't want anybody else hands on him.

And John feels delighted.

  
Two hours later, after having held his hand during the operation, John is sitting on a chair, sewing Sherlock's shoulder with the same care he would give over a crystal vase.

V.

  


Midnight's moon shines in the sky, his glare dimly enlightening the rooms.

Silence runs free through the corridors, cradling everyone's dreams, bringing peace and relief from the pain.

Two eyes are open in the dark, watching, memorizing everything. There's a thick needle piercing his shoulder again, cotton soaked in disinfectant pushing gently on his skin.

"You really should stop, Sherlock." a soft voice says, John behind him - Sherlock called him just in the moment he closed his eyes in a mere attempt to sleep, "John, I scratched my shoulder, I need assistance."

And he run, oh God if he run. He talked with a nurse and voilà, now is in the hospital, doing his duty of guardian angel.

He sighs, making another hole in Sherlock's flesh. "Your body will be ruined forever, if you don't keep a bit of attention."

"He shot me, John."

"Come on. You know I'm generally speaking."

Sherlock laughs a bit, shaking John's stomach. "You care too much."

"Sure I care to much, you're an idiot, the worst idiot I've ever met. You could have died."

"We've already talked about this, John. And you know I can't really die, not yet at least. I mean, look the man I've got with me."

The detective's face turns a bit, and John's stomach tightens so much he's afraid it'll start to hurt soon. "I just try to be helpful."

"You just try to keep me away from death. Since the first time."

John swallows, forcing a smile. There's a though running on his head from far too much time and really, this conversation isn't helping him to think properly. But when he opens his mouth to reply, shock deprives him of his voice.

Sherlock's tongue is soft, it moves with confidence over his lips, slowly, almost tenderly. John stays still, holding his breath.

"I've seen it, John. I always see how you look at me. And I'm flattered. And I really don't want to force you but, if you don't want to go any further please." He looks into those dark blue eyes, whispering on his lips. "Please, stop looking at me like if I was the best man in the world. 'Cause I'm not."

Sherlock is sure he can hear the umpteeth _idiot_ of the day, but he doesn't care. John press hot and wet lips on his, letting him enter on his mouth.

Everything is perfect, everything was better than expectations.

It's a long moment, whispers shattered on their lips, word of love that, they know, they won't ever repeat again.

They already knew it. Since the first time.

I.

The first time Sherlock sees John under the hands of a doctor is the day he shows the whole world he has a heart.

He feels uncomfortable, useless. It's a new feeling for him, used to be the man of the day, the only one in the world good enough to make everyone else feel so tiny and insignificant.

He's useless.

His brain, his intelligence can't help John to feel better, can't help _him_ to feel better. 'Cause there's something in his chest, something eating his stomach and burning his heart - heart lying on a couch, groaning hoarse and tighening his hands around the matress.

There's still blood in his face, Sherlock thinks. He watches the paramedics cleaning John's wounds gently, and he can't avoid to think that he hates them.

They're touching him, and he didn't allow them to. He would to shout at them to go away, to leave them alone - but he knows he can't, because he's useless.

John shakes slowly his hand, a weak smile on his pale lips. He already got stitches on his left hip, on his left arm, just under the scar of Afghanistan.

Now it's his eye turn. John's face disappears behind the nurse back, and he can't see it. He must stay still, sitting on a cold chair and waiting for her to finish her job.

He just want to bring him home.

Half of John's chest is covered in gauzes already dirty in blood, and Sherlock?

Sherlock has only a bandage on his head, because John used his body to protect him and made him hit it on the sloppery floor.

Four stiches, and not by John. Four stitches, his head full of awful thoughs, and this little, noisy, annoying feeling in the middle of his stomach, just right up his navel.

Uselessness.

Moriarty hurt his heart.

Uselessness.

He's not used to this. He can't stand the pathetic feeling, he can't stand to be a stupid human being and, oh God, he only wants to punch someone hard right in the face - even if it wouldn't help him at all.

Nothing will help until John stays there.

He goes out the room, leaning on the door for a few moments. He doesn't want to talk to Lestrade, or Mycroft, or anyone. He doesn't want to be comforted,

he doesn't want the help everyone tries constantly to offer.

He just want to bring John home. Nothing else.

  
It's four past ten in the morning, when they finally reach the 221B of Baker Street. The black car - Mycroft gift, as always - stops right in front of their home, and Sherlock goes out first offering John a hand where to lean on. John smiles, when he touches the door - Sherlock can see in his eyes the relief to be still alive slipping out his mouth in a smooth sigh.

When they enter the flat, John doesn't turn on the light: silently, he walks through the room, falling on the sofa and holding back his head.

"Oh God, this is so much better than that damned couch."

Streetlamps' light is soft and warm over his legs.

Sherlock smiles and reaches John, sitting beside him. "Feeling any better?"

"Painkillers are doing the job, so yes. I think I feel better." John chews air, before speaking again. "I'm glad we're fine."

"John."

The doctor looks at him, but Sherlock is looking at the floor so intensely that for a moment John thinks he doesn't want to know what is going to say.

"Yes?"

"You should really stop, for now. You're not in Afghanistan anymore, there's no need to act as a hero every day. I can take care of myself."

John sighs, murmuring with a soft voice. "I know. But- it's not that I want to be a hero.”

"You should really stop, for now. You're not in Afghanistan anymore John, there's no need to act as a hero every day. I can take care of  
myself."

John sighs, murmuring with a soft voice. "I know. But- it's not that I want to be a hero.” He fills his lungs with fresh air, before speaking again. "I just- I don't want you to get hurt. You're important for all here. You're the... vacuum-cleaner of London crime." He laughs, shaking his head. "And I'm just someone you met by accident, it could have been anyone. There's plenty of John Watson in the world, but there's only one Sherlock Holmes, and really, I can't allow myself to get you hurt or... let you-"

"Shut up."

He obeys. Shadows are walking on their floor, touching gently their feet. John can hear Sherlock sighing, and he smiles a bit. He feels a bit dizzy, and it's a natural move when he curls a bit, searching for Sherlock's shoulder. He closes his eyes, breathing his smell.

Disinfectant and skin.

Somewhere in his head, Moriarty is laughing hard, looking at him like if he was a bug. But it only last a few seconds; Sherlock moves his head a bit, pressing gently his lips on his forehead - it's not a kiss, it's only human contact, long and silent and everything both of them need now.

"Come to bed." says Sherlock finally, interrupting the contact and looking in John's deep blue eyes. "You need to sleep."

John knows that Sherlock will stay awake until the sun rises, and he smiles, grateful.

No words to say: just a kiss on his cheek and they go to their bedroom, standing by each other.

  



End file.
